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Chapter Nine: Gimmick
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Greg had a week off, and he spent most of his time climbing the walls of Grissom's townhouse. He tried to spend the first day doing something that seemed almost constructive - - he snatched away newspaper crosswords and did them in front of the television. He became well-versed in the soap opera episodes of the day. He found a cardboard box of puzzles in Grissom's closet and spent a few hours constructing an elaborate watercolor on the coffee table. He read entomology texts until his eyes crossed.
He was terribly, terribly bored.
The second day, he went on a cleaning spree and sprayed everything in Grissom's house with cleanser. He dusted and vacuumed like a maniac, and made both beds at least three times apiece until the corners were as straight and square as an advertisement from House Beautiful. He did all of the laundry, and then went through both closets and washed the items that even appeared remotely worn. He polished four pairs of shoes and six belts.
Grissom's reaction upon coming home was, "So you're obsessive-compulsive now."
"I was bored."
"So you cleaned?"
"I was really bored."
He found a Blockbuster gift card balanced on his chest the next morning when he woke up, and he spent almost two hours loading up on videos and bags of cheap popcorn. That was probably his favorite day. He sprawled on the sofa in his college sweats and watched every single Halloween movie ever made, and he was starting on the first Friday the 13th when Grissom entered again. Suddenly embarrassed of his viewing choices, Greg paused the movie on a machete shot and felt a warm flush rising in his neck.
"I liked Hellraiser, myself," Grissom said, shrugging. "Move your legs."
It would have been more fun watching horror movies with Grissom if he hadn't been so eerily obsessed with analyzing the blood splatter and comparing it to the real thing.
"See, the arc is wrong," Grissom said, pointing at a spray of dark blood jetting from someone's neck.
"You are so freaking morbid." Greg shook his head in disgust. "I hope you never watch any of these movies on a date, because no girl would ever let you put your arm around her if you made comments like that all the time."
Grissom waited until a relatively still moment in the film to say, "So you left the house today."
"What? Oh - - yeah. I guess I did."
Idiot. He should have realized that the gift card was a test, just like anything else. Grissom rarely did anything without a plan behind it. Grissom was checking to see if a gift card and the possibilities of entertainment for the afternoon would be enough to lure him out of shelter. If, after Melissa and the parking lot, Greg would be able to leave at all.
He had.
"I didn't even think about it," he said, grinning. "I never even thought about it."
Grissom stopped talking about blood spatter and they watched the rest of the movie in silence, Greg wearing a silly smile, and making hissing noises every time the machete swung through the air. He entertained the thought that this kind of movie should have traumatized him more, but dismissed it almost instantly.
So this is what happy feels like. It's been awhile.
On the fourth day, he ran out of videos and invented the Post-it note game. He made a run to a gas station, stocked up on bright yellow Post-its and Sharpies, and started leaving Grissom notes in the most unusual places he could think of. He stuck one inside the sink, one on the carton of milk, two on Grissom's revolving fan, and even one on the showerhead.
One of them was a thank-you, shyly penned, and he hoped Grissom wouldn't say anything about it. Most of the others were useless tidbits of things he wasn't sure Grissom knew - - mostly arcane facts on Scandinavian languages, scuba diving, and rock 'n' roll.
The one stuck to the milk carton was a note about his father.
When I was eight, he took me to a baseball game, so I think he honestly tried. But when I was nine, a fly ball gave me a bloody nose and I dropped the sport. That was when I think he stopped trying. He knew I was a geek when I begged for a chemistry set, and then I was a disappointment.
Grissom discussed Norway with him that evening, and even though the note was gone when Greg checked the fridge, Grissom never said anything about it.
That was how the Post-it note game began.
He'd leave them every day, scattered all over the house, and at least one of them would be about something he couldn't say out loud. The only one of those notes that Grissom ever addressed, directly or indirectly, was the one Greg stuck to the main bedroom's lampshade, saying: He told me once that I was worthless.
That night, over another rash of videos, Grissom told him that the week was almost up.
"I'll be glad to have you back," Grissom said. "You're important to us."
He stopped leaving notes the night he went back to the lab, and it wasn't just because he was back on the horse and not freaking out about it this time. The sudden end to the Post-it game was because his father had called.